


Matter

by Aelfay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Molly, Character Study, Fix-It, Gen, Molly deserved better, Motherhood, Personal Growth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 04:37:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16078580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelfay/pseuds/Aelfay
Summary: Molly Hooper doesn't feel like she matters until she does. A character study of Molly's growth, and a fix-it for S3-4.





	Matter

Molly breaks up with Jim. She does it, on her own, feeling stupid and blushing and trying to make it easy on him, but standing up for herself. _I’m sorry,_ he says, _I wanted to feel like I had someone, like I mattered._

_I don’t matter to you, then,_ she says,  _or you wouldn’t have lied,_  and she’s crying a little, but she says it.  _You should be happy, and find someone. You shouldn’t hurt girls like me, it’s not kind._ Sherlock wasn’t kind, no. He wasn’t cruel either, telling her the truth. Jim was crueller, lying to her. 

She didn’t know how cruel he was, not until later. When Sherlock Holmes comes to her, saying things like,  _You’ve always mattered, and I’ve always seen you,_ and she realises he _has_ , and she just never let herself accept it. 

She knows Sherlock lets himself talk to her because Jim let her live. Jim thinks she’s tiny, naive, unaware, and so even if he finds out she knows Sherlock’s alive, he’ll assume Sherlock bullied her into it, mousy with fright, and he won’t bother to catch the mouse. 

Sherlock trusts her because he can read the guilt on her, thick as molasses, blaming herself for not seeing through Jim at once. She can’t betray him; the look on John’s face at the funeral makes her think to herself, _I could have stopped that,_  and she goes home silently, without a word. 

Sherlock gets sick. Very sick. Fever, she guesses. He’s texting her, a name, locations she shouldn’t know, desperate, telling her _that man needs to die,_  telling her, _I miss home,_  telling her, _I wanted to love him and now maybe I’ll never have the chance._

She goes by John’s house, to check up on him, see the new place. Look around. Halfway through, John goes to use the loo, looking pale and worn and unhappy about someone being in his flat. When he comes back she makes polite excuses, and he looks so relieved. She slips out, unobtrusive, pink purse tucked under her arm.

That night a man across London dies. She misses on the first shot, then manages the second, and when she runs she’s wiping tears from her eyes, but she’s done it. 

The texts change to _Someone else did it while I was ill and I’m grateful, Lestrade won’t put full effort into solving a crime against someone like that,_ and when she types back, _are you sure,_ the response makes her sigh with relief. 

She still takes a file from her little purple tool bag, scraping the inside of the barrel meticulously, changing the ballistics of the gun before she goes back to John’s. Giving it back to him carefully, she says  _I was worried about you, but it’s yours and I shouldn’t have taken it,_ and _You have friends, you always have friends, John._

When he purses his lips and blinks hard, she feels her heart shatter, but she manages to get home before she falls apart. 

At one am, she picks herself off her sofa and orders in, slipping off her sensible flats and pulling on a robe. She eats supper with Toby purring over her toes, watching a rerun of _Strictly Come Dancing._

John looks like he might survive, now. It’s been over a year. It’s okay. Sherlock hasn’t texted in a while, but he’s like that sometimes, and she’s met a man. He’s got all the parts of Sherlock she liked best, but doesn’t have the biting, hurtful tongue, or the brilliance. She doesn’t mind, not really. He’s harmless and the sex is all right. 

Of course that’s when Sherlock comes back.  For a little bit she wonders if she should start worrying about them both again, and then she stops wondering because she already is. 

Waking up at two am after John’s wedding, breathing hard, she realises she likes Tom, but she doesn’t love him. She can’t tell him about how it feels to pull a trigger, doesn’t trust him with that, and breaks down even harder when he asks how he can help. The sweet man is trying so hard, but it’s over. 

She apologises for slapping Sherlock the day after she’s done it. He looks at her and apologises, to her amazement, about her failed engagement, and his snipe. He asks if she hates him, and the only thing more surprising than Sherlock Holmes apologising is how hard Molly Hooper laughs. 

No, she doesn’t hate him. She might hate herself a little. 

Sherlock gently sits her on the sofa, and brings her tea. When she stops laughing it turns to crying. He’s uncomfortable, she can tell, but she gasps out, _would a file alter ballistics._ He considers it, and asks a few more questions, and by the end of it Molly’s stable again. The teacup is warm on her fingers; she’s breathing regularly. She looks at him and tells him that he has the chance to love someone now, and just because they don’t love you back is no excuse. He smiles wryly, and she smiles back, and her chest is lighter than it’s been in months.

When he gets shot, she knows what changed. She still cares - oh, god, does she care, especially standing over him in hospital, pale and silent - but it’s different now, a familiar ache within her sternum. It’s friends with her now. She has the startling realisation that she hasn’t had sex in ages. It's something she doesn’t miss, actually, and then wonders if the only reason she ever had it was because she wanted to be more like Irene Adler, the faceless woman on a slab.

She has the feeling she would rather not be faceless. She also has the feeling that she’s never going to have sex again. It’s a relief. 

She wonders how many things she’s made herself do because she wanted a man’s attention; not just Sherlock, but the boys before him. She doesn’t want to be naked around someone again. 

When she shops, the boy at the till gives her a look that says _cat lady_ , as she hands him the bags of food to scan. For the first time, she takes it as a compliment. 

Molly meets Rosamund and realises love is a many-faceted thing, and the idea of sex morphs into something complex. She doesn’t want it, but Rosamund’s tiny fingers around her large one make her mourn for something that she didn’t know she missed. 

She goes home and cries, and when a surprise delivery of ice cream comes, she opens the door to it with bloodshot eyes. The little card with it says, _Not every family is blood related. SH_

Every bite of the ice cream is delicious. She hopes Sherlock enjoys the pad thai she ordered to Baker Street, with a note that said, _Godmother implies rather a lot of diety for me to handle._

Mary disappears, and Molly loves every minute she spends with Rosamund. When Mary dies, Molly suddenly experiences just how much work  _godmother_  implies. More than that, she sees how much family means when it breaks. She sees Sherlock’s face when she tells him - and she has to tell him, John doesn’t leave the gun around her anymore. She calls Mrs Hudson in tears. 

To her credit, when she accidentally calls Mrs Hudson _Mum,_  the woman doesn’t even break the flow of conversation. Molly hangs up feeling better. When John calls her asking her to watch Rosie for a bit longer and explains the situation with Mrs Hudson and the convertible, Molly assures him Rosie is safe, hangs up, and laughs and laughs and laughs. 

She doesn’t laugh when she finds out about the rest. When John comes back for Rosie she tells him flatly that he can’t have her, and his face does something complex and hard. He scrubs it and says quietly, _I’ll go to Greg’s_  and _I may need help._ Rather than make him call another cab, she stops him on the porch and calls Mycroft instead. 

The car picks him up, and she gets updates from Mycroft and his assistant about both of them. John is talking to another veteran, this one with a doctorate in psychology, a speciality in adult children of alcoholics, and a second speciality in anger management. Sherlock’s in detox again, and she sends them both pictures of Rosie. 

They send back their own texts. _Tell her we adore her._   _Tell her that worker bees have no gender, that it’s a societal concept of utter meaninglessness, and we love her no matter who she chooses to be. Tell her we’re sorry but we’re going to be who she deserves. Tell her she’s perfect._

_Tell her that her godmother is a saint and saved our lives._

Molly tells Rosie all of it, even the last bit, because she did do that, actually.  She also replies. 

_She adores you too. A bit young for gendered self-awareness, I think? I’m making sure she knows she’s loved. She’s so proud of you both. Rosie says she knows she’s perfect, even if she pooped all over her saintly godmother’s bath rug._

_She loves her daddies very much._

When they come back, John asks her quietly if she could keep Rosie for another week, while he adjusts. She smiles and assures him she’d love to, and his face grows more wrinkles, but they’re all in good places. She feels like she’s seeing the real John Watson again, the one she knew back at the very beginning, when he’d found out his leg actually worked. It’s perfect. 

221B blows up, and they’re missing. 

She’s so tired on day three. They’ve been gone and Rosie’s been crying and she’s finally got a moment to herself, Rosie sniffling in her sleep. The phone call just hurts, the request for _I love you,_ the terrible return. It feels like a betrayal, like he’s pushing her back by years, like he’s chosen not to see who she’s become. Who she is now.

So when Greg calls her, saying, _They went through hell,_  saying, _Mycroft’s parents are cads, he was a child,_ saying, _Can they stay with you, I need to take care of him, and the flat’s blown to pieces,_  she knows she should have seen it coming, but she didn’t. She feels better about the call from Sherlock, and guilty that she hadn’t guessed he’d never do that to her. 

She gets ready. Mrs Hudson helps, she’s a wonder, but Molly’s flat is small. For the first three days Sherlock and John are quiet, huddled together with Rosie like they’re afraid one of them is going to sink away. 

Later, when Molly finds out the rest of it from Greg, she understands why. John and Sherlock are going back and forth to Baker Street, by the end of the week, putting things back together. 

Mycroft comes over with Greg, and actually sits on the floor next to Rosie. When Molly explains awkwardly that normally she likes being read to, Mycroft pulls up a book about bees on his phone and begins to read. 

Molly sees the look in Greg’s eyes and feels less worried about Mycroft. Rosie falls asleep sucking at Mycroft’s tie. When he leaves, his hand slips into Greg’s. Molly smiles as she closes the door, quietly so Rosie won’t wake. 

John and Sherlock have the flat ready. Molly holds Rosie close that night, having told John and Sherlock to _consummate the flat, I mean, oh god, I didn’t mean that, I meant, you know, housewarm, only it’s a flat._ Sherlock’s eyes twinkled and John kissed Rosie’s curls and told her, _Excuse us, I have to go consummate something._ The only person redder than Molly had been Sherlock. 

When John comes back, it’s obvious they didn’t sleep as much as they should have. But he says, _case,_ and he says, _too dangerous for a baby,_  and he says, _Sherlock told me about the pad thai._

Molly’s body goes tense, and then two arms go round her shoulders, and John’s saying quietly, _You’re family too,_ and, _I’m sorry I took it for granted,_ and _Let me tell you what I’m thinking._

They sit, and Molly’s shaking, but when he’s done she’s crying and smiling and nodding. John’s choked up but smiling too. As Sherlock arrives they both look at each other and feel so ridiculous they start to laugh. Sherlock gives them a disdainful expression and picks up Rosie. _You’re Rosalee Molly Holmes-Watson,_ he tells her, _They’re family names,_  andRosie coos and claps, and Molly has to get another tissue. 

Mycroft visits later that week, and she fills out the forms, and she doesn’t regret the second box of tissues she goes through. Mycroft is professional about it. He leaves as she gets a text that says, _Mother has none of the additional pressures of deification,_  and she laughs and laughs and laughs, and Rosie gurgles and chortles and claps. 

On Rosie’s third birthday, Molly tells Sherlock over the icing-smeared table that she’s realised why she’d mooned over him for so long. He snipes back that it must be because she liked cleaning up messes. Greg chokes on his cake, but Molly just giggles. _I like mattering,_  she says, and Sherlock meets her eyes, and tells her, _you’ve always mattered._

Molly smiles, and says, _I know._

**Author's Note:**

> My very biggest thanks to Nymeria578 and hotshoeagain for the beta! You made this piece immeasurably better.


End file.
